


For Love

by toyhto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Post-Reichenbach, Years after Sherlock's comeback though, idiots to lovers, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:34:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: Sherlock asks John to marry him. It's for a case. Probably.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 41
Kudos: 207





	For Love

**Author's Note:**

> What I'm trying to do here is that I'm trying to make you smile at your laptop.
> 
> When I'm not writing about these two, I'm on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com).

”We should get married,” Sherlock said.  
  
John looked up from his laptop. So, sometimes it happened that Sherlock said something and John heard something else. For example, just five seconds ago John had thought he heard Sherlock saying _we should get married,_ when actually there was no way Sherlock would have said that. It didn’t make sense at all. And well, okay, sometimes Sherlock _did_ say things that didn’t make sense, like, _John, I need you to lend me your toothbrush_ , or _John, where’s the chainsaw._ But there was always context.  
  
John cleared his throat and blinked. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, wearing nothing except boxers and a dressing gown, and really looked like he expected John to answer to whatever it was that he had said that certainly hadn’t been _we should get married_.  
  
“What?” John asked.  
  
“It’d be practical,” Sherlock said, frowning at him. “We could use the wedding planner who murdered the nephew, do you remember? You liked her. And she’s very good.”  
  
“At murdering people,” he said and then thought it over. _A case_. It was _for a case._ Well, that was context, and coincidentally it was the most usual context there was about anything with Sherlock. _John, can you hold this cat?_ For a case. _John, can you pinch my nipple?_ For a case, too.  
  
“She’s very good at planning weddings, too,” Sherlock said. “And I can’t prove yet that she murdered the nephew, as you well know. It’s going to take a while until she’s arrested. She’s got enough time to plan our wedding. Or did you have something on the first Saturday in May?”  
  
“Let me check,” John said and took his calendar. Sometimes it was nice to pretend that Sherlock didn’t regularly go through his personal items and memorise the content of his calendar. “No, I don’t have anything on the first Saturday in May. It’s fine.”  
  
“Great,” Sherlock said. “It’s settled, then. Can you pass me your laptop?”  
  
John blinked. “I’m _using_ my laptop.”  
  
“Barely,” Sherlock said. “You’re looking at me. So, you don’t mind if I ask her to plan our wedding?”  
  
“The murderous woman? Not at all.” It was kind of surprising that Sherlock even asked. Usually Sherlock either made demands or supposed that John realised telepathically what he wanted. “Why would I mind?”  
  
“Because you liked her.”  
  
John snorted and then took a deep breath. “I didn’t _like_ her, that’s ridiculous. She murdered someone.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “although I haven’t proved that yet. But I didn’t mean that you like her as a non-murderous human being, I meant that… you think that she’s sexually attractive.”  
  
“No one says _sexually attractive_ ,” John said and bit his lip. “And yeah, she is sexually attractive. I have _eyes_. What then? Surely that doesn’t mean she couldn’t plan our wedding.”  
  
“But won’t it be uncomfortable to you?”  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“Because if she’s planning our wedding,” Sherlock said, “it’d be a little rude of you to flirt with her. So, can you withhold from flirting with her?”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, “yeah, of course. I don’t flirt with every attractive woman that I meet. And for the record, I only flirted with her _before_ I realised she’s your number one suspect for the murder. And a little bit after. But that was just a reflex.”  
  
“You aren’t very good at controlling your flirting reflexes,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to the side and staring at John. “Maybe it’s a bad idea, after all.”  
  
“For fuck’s sake,” John said, not exactly proud of how his voice caught in his throat. But talking to Sherlock often made him feel emotional. “Just ask her to plan our wedding.”  
  
“…are you sure?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m sure.”  
  
“Alright,” Sherlock said, raised his feet onto the sofa and slid down until he was lying on his back on the cushions. He was certainly the only thirty-five-year-old man who could do that gracefully while wearing what basically counted as nightwear. His knees were funny. They were like anyone’s knees. Just a pair of human knees, bony and pinkish and somewhat hairy. “…John?”  
  
John blinked, sighed and stood up. He walked to the sofa and put his laptop in Sherlock’s hands. “Here you go. I wasn’t using it anyway.”  
  
“Did you want to watch porn?” Sherlock asked, as John walked to the kitchen. “Is that it? Did you want me to leave the room? You should’ve told me.”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to watch porn,” John said and put the kettle on. Sometimes he seriously wondered what the hell was going on in his life. “You think I watch porn all the time. I don’t.”  
  
“I know how much you watch porn. I can see it on your laptop.”  
  
John glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock had balanced John’s laptop over his knees and was typing something with one hand. “Really?”  
  
“And you’re the one who’s being awkward about your porn habits,” Sherlock said, not looking at John. “I’ve suggested multiple times that we could watch porn together.”  
  
“And I’ve told you that I’m not going to watch porn with you,” John said. It was goddamn brilliant that Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, because his face was beginning to feel hot. “You just want to analyse me or something. For science.”  
  
“No, I’m genuinely curious,” Sherlock said. “It’s fascinating.”  
  
John opened his mouth, closed it, and decided to stare at the kettle until it boiled.  
  
“Are you angry?”  
  
“No,” he said at the kettle. “This conversation just got weird.”  
  
“…sorry.”  
  
He shook his head and glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock was looking back at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s alright. Did you want tea?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, frowned at John and then seemed to remember something. “Please.”  
  
“Alright,” John said and made them tea. He put Sherlock’s cup of tea on the sofa table and took his to the armchair. It was surprisingly nice just to spend time with Sherlock like this. No murders, no cases, no work, no scientific experiments. Just two men sitting in comfortable silence and with their cups of tea in their own living room. “Hey,” he said to Sherlock, when his tea was already lukewarm and Sherlock had stopped typing.  
  
“Yes?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“The first Saturday in May?”  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Yes. Seven weeks. Gives us enough time to plan things, don’t you agree?”  
  
“Sure,” John said and marked the date in his calendar.  
  
  
**  
  
  
Two days later, John had barely managed to make himself tea in the morning when Sherlock told him that they had an appointment with the wedding planner. Sherlock, of course, had already showered and combed his hair or whatever it was that he did to make it look like that, and was wearing a suit and smelled nice and looked at John as if John was slow or something.  
  
“Now?” John asked. “It’s eight in the morning.”  
  
“Eight thirty,” Sherlock said. “And no. The appointment is at ten. Can you wear the shirt I gave you?”  
  
“The blue one?” John asked and sipped his tea. “You picked the wrong size. It’s too small.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“The shirt’s too tight.”  
  
“No, it’s not.”  
  
“Around my stomach.”  
  
“No, it’s not,” Sherlock said. “You’re just breathing too much. But, fine. Wear something else.”  
  
John finished his tea and then went to take a shower. Maybe he should put on the blue shirt. Sherlock liked it. Or maybe Sherlock liked to torment John which was just as likely. Anyway, Sherlock had given John that shirt, and Sherlock wanted him to wear it, and it wasn’t as if he was going to be breathing hard, was he? There would be no running.  
  
“You’re wearing the shirt,” Sherlock said, when they were in the taxi.  
  
“Well,” John said, “you said I should.”  
  
Sherlock glanced at him sideways. “Are you going to flirt with her? Is that it? Is that why you wanted to look good?”  
  
“You think I look good?” he asked. “Thanks. And, no, I’m not going to flirt with her.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “…promise?”  
  
“Yeah,” John said. It didn’t matter anyway. It wasn’t as if he was looking for a relationship. He was busy with Sherlock. “I promise.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock said. He looked genuinely relieved. John looked through the window and tried not to wonder what the hell was going on in Sherlock’s head again.  
  
Ten minutes later, he was wondering what was going on in his own head.  
  
“So, I was so happy to hear you two are getting married,” the wedding planner said and shook his hand. “I must say, I’m not completely surprised. I thought maybe there was something going on when you last talked to me, you know, about my sister’s friend’s poor boyfriend. Or ex-boyfriend. Because he’s dead. But anyway, who proposed?”  
  
John opened his mouth.  
  
“I did,” Sherlock said. “But John accepted immediately. He only thought about it for approximately two minutes and twenty seconds.”  
  
John bit his lip. Sherlock was surprisingly good at pretending that they were getting married. John should probably catch up. “Well, it’s not like I hadn’t thought about it, right?” he said as casually as he could, and Sherlock smiled at him. It was his favourite kind of all the smiles Sherlock had, small and private. He never saw Sherlock smile like that at anyone else. “We’ve been together pretty much since… since he came back from…”  
  
“Being dead,” Sherlock said. He looked slightly surprised, though. “Yes, I was supposed to be dead for two years, and after I came back, we just… John just…”  
  
“I moved back in,” John said and cleared his throat. “Couldn’t help myself. I still loved him. So, now we’re getting married. What do we need to plan?”  
  
“A wedding,” Sherlock said, “we need to plan a wedding.”  
  
John sighed. “No, I mean… shouldn’t we get to it? Like, do we need to… pick a church or something?”  
  
Sherlock frowned at him. “You want to get married in a church?”  
  
“No,” he said immediately and then thought about it. It didn’t matter, of course, because they weren’t really getting married. But he supposed it was a nice idea, to get married in a church. A proper wedding. “Yeah. Sure. I’d like to get married in a church. Don’t you?”  
  
“I…” Sherlock took a deep breath. He had left two top buttons of his shirt open this morning. John blinked. “I suppose we can get married in a church, if it means something to you.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said and cleared his throat. “Good.”  
  
“Great,” Sherlock said, staring at him. “That’s settled, then. Church.”  
  
“So,” the wedding planner said slowly, “the first thing that you should do now that you’ve decided that you want to get married in a church, is that you need to find a church to get married in.”  
  
“Anything goes,” Sherlock said. “I don’t mind.”  
  
“Maybe a Christian church,” John said.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They’re all _Christian_ churches, John.”  
  
“Surely there’re other kind of churches.”  
  
“Really? Like what?”  
  
“Well, I’m not an expert, am I,” John said. “You tell me.” Then he remembered they were supposed to plan their wedding. He glanced at the wedding planner. Well, she had a name, too. He just didn’t remember what that was. “Do you think you can get us a Christian church?”  
  
“Sure,” she said, looking a little sceptical. “So, what are you thinking about the date? This summer comes quite suddenly, but what about the next –“  
  
“The first Saturday in May,” Sherlock said.  
  
“…this year?”  
  
“Yes. We agreed it’s adequate. John marked it in his calendar.”  
  
“I did,” John said and smiled at the woman. Then he dropped the smile, because Sherlock was glaring at him.  
  
“Seven weeks,” the wedding planner said, “is not much time to plan a wedding.”  
  
“We don’t need it to be romantic or anything,” Sherlock said. “It’s just two people who already live together having a party, going on a short holiday and then getting back to normal. Not a big deal.”  
  
John stepped closer to Sherlock and poked Sherlock’s arm with his elbow. He wished he was subtle about it. He probably wasn’t. But he wasn’t going to let Sherlock blow their cover by being an unromantic asshole about the whole thing. “Of course we need it to be romantic. It’s our _wedding_. It’s a _huge_ deal.”  
  
Sherlock looked a little surprised. “It is?”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, “of course.”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d be romantic about this,” Sherlock said.  
  
“And why not?” John asked. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic about this?”  
  
Sherlock frowned. John was slightly worried what that much frowning might do to Sherlock’s forehead.  
  
“Okay,” the wedding planner said, sounding somewhat tired. “I’m going to find you a few alternatives for the church. If anything’s still available. We should probably discuss other things as well. How many guests were you planning to have?”  
  
“…guests?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Friends and family.”  
  
Sherlock grimaced.  
  
“Oh, god,” John said. Then he did the only thing that made sense at this point. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand. “Darling, of course we’re going to have friends and family in our wedding. We just have to decide who. And how many. I suppose it matters for… for the size of the church.”  
  
Sherlock was blinking rapidly at him. “Well, there’s… Gavin. I think we can invite him.”  
  
“His name is Greg,” John said, “but yeah, of course we’re going to invite him. Should we make a list of the guests?”  
  
“Yes,” said the wedding planner.  
  
John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “Alright. Who else? Who else we like?”  
  
Sherlock looked very confused.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Okay,” John said, when they were in the taxi again.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him and then turned away. “Are you hungry? Because we could go eat first.”  
  
“Sure,” he said, looking at Sherlock. “What do you think?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“About her. Still a murderer?”  
  
“Chinese or Italian?” Sherlock said and then frowned at John. “Italian, obviously. You’re thinking about pizza.” And then he leaned forward and told the driver the address of their favourite Italian restaurant while John refused to wonder what about him had told Sherlock he wanted pizza. He hadn’t even known he did, not before Sherlock had said it.  
  
He bit his lip and tried not to smile. After knowing Sherlock all this time, still it sometimes felt like magic.  
  
“What’re you smiling at?”  
  
“Nothing. So, you still think she’s the murderer.”  
  
“Of course,” Sherlock said, looking at John as if he didn’t understand why John was still talking about this, which was a bit weird, since that was the whole point in all this. But then again, Sherlock was often weird. In a good way. Definitely in a good way. “Do you really think we should invite Mycroft?”  
  
“What?” _Oh._ Right. The wedding. Sherlock was talking about their wedding. Well, John supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. When there was a case on, Sherlock usually thought and talked about it all the time. “Of course we should invite Mycroft. He’s your _brother._ ”  
  
“Exactly,” Sherlock said and grimaced. “We definitely shouldn’t invite him.”  
  
“He’s coming,” John said. “And your mom and dad, too. Unless… unless you don’t want to tell them.”  
  
“Of course I’m going to tell them,” Sherlock said. “They’d find out eventually anyway. We have to go visit them at Christmas. But maybe they’ll let us off the hook if we invite them to the wedding.”  
  
“We’re going to go to your parents’ place for Christmas, Sherlock. It’s important for them.” John paused. “And for me. It’s… nice. They bake things and treat me like I’m family.”  
  
“You are family,” Sherlock said. “What about Harry?”  
  
John cleared his throat. “Oh, no. We aren’t going to invite her.”  
  
“Why not? Have you been yelling at her over the phone again?”  
  
“No,” John said and tried to cross his legs but there wasn’t enough space at the backseat for that. He frowned at his own hands. Last time he had talked with Harry, it had started well. Then Harry had said that she was very happy for John. John had asked why. Harry had said something like ‘you know’. John had told her that no, he didn’t know, to which Harry had said that she only meant it was nice that John had finally found someone.  
  
John had been shocked. He had told Harry multiple times that he wasn’t gay, and he couldn’t understand why she still didn’t believe him. Was it so hard to believe that he worked with Sherlock and lived with Sherlock and shared pretty much his whole life with Sherlock and obviously loved Sherlock very much, but there was nothing going on between them? At that point of the conversation, Harry had been quiet for a while. Then she had asked if John ever thought that maybe Sherlock was gay and in love with John and just waiting for John to realise that.  
  
“You shouldn’t yell at her,” Sherlock said now, frowning at John. John looked through the side window. “What did she say, this time? Was it about the Christmas presents in the 80’s again?”  
  
“That was only one time,” John said, “and that teddy bear was mine. But no, no, it wasn’t.”  
  
“What was it, then? Is she drinking again?”  
  
“No,” John said and sighed. “It doesn’t matter. She just said something stupid. I don’t want to… we don’t need to talk about it.”  
  
“I want to invite her,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. He really knew how to talk nicely when he wanted to. It was so unfair. John didn’t have a chance. “She’s your sister. I want her in our wedding.”  
  
“Alright,” John said and pressed his eyes shut for a second. Oh, god, Harry was going to think that she was right, even though she wasn’t. But it was for a case. John could handle it. “We can invite her.”  
  
“Great,” Sherlock said. “And obviously we’ll invite Mrs. Hudson.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, closed his mouth, opened it again and sighed. “She’s going to be happy that we’re… together.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, as if it was so simple.  
  
“Don’t you think that’s a little bit…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“…cruel?”  
  
Sherlock blinked and looked at John. John looked back at him. Surely even Sherlock could realise why it was cruel to let their loved ones think they were getting married for real, when actually it was for a case. And Mrs. Hudson had… well, she had always had this absurd idea that John and Sherlock were more than friends. She would be so happy, and then so disappointed. “Why would it be cruel?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John breathed in. “Because we are… because we aren’t…”  
  
Sherlock stared at him.  
  
“Nothing,” he said. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed. He had three of his top buttons open at this point. It was completely unnecessary and frankly a little shocking. John looked away. “John,” Sherlock said in a voice that was too steady, “if you don’t think this is a good –“  
  
“No,” John said quickly, “no, of course it’s a good idea, all your ideas usually are, I just… sorry. Of course we’re going to invite Mrs. Hudson. To our… wedding.”  
  
“…are you sure?”  
  
“Yes,” he said, “fuck, yes. I’m sure. She should be there. And we… _we_ should be there. And this… are you hungry?”  
  
“The restaurant is right there,” Sherlock said, and thank god, it really was. They got out of the taxi and John paid, and then they went inside. Sherlock opened the door for John, and John wondered vaguely why that felt so familiar. Maybe Sherlock had been doing things like that for him and he just hadn’t realised.  
  
He ordered for both of them and Sherlock actually ate a little. They didn’t talk about the case, not even about the wedding. Instead, they talked about the weather and John’s shirt. The shirt was too small and John had to open it so that he could eat. It was just goddamn lucky that he was wearing a t-shirt under. Sherlock looked at him in a way that suggested Sherlock utterly disapproved him not wanting to strangle himself with the too tight shirt. He said Sherlock looked good enough for both of them in his tiny shirts, and he, _he_ really wanted to eat, and from now on he would take no fashion advice from Sherlock. Ten minutes Sherlock still looked sad, so he told Sherlock he hadn’t meant it.  
  
“I just thought it would look good on you,” Sherlock said, moving his pasta back and forth on the plate.  
  
“Well, thank you,” John said.  
  
“Not that you don’t always look good,” Sherlock said. “Because you do.”  
  
“Thanks,” John said and blinked. “What?”  
  
“But the shirt,” Sherlock said and pointed at him with the fork, “the colour…”  
  
John swallowed. “I’d love to wear this shirt, Sherlock, it’s just that… it really is too small.”  
  
“I’ll buy a larger size next time,” Sherlock said, sounding about as uncomfortable as that one time when he had finally agreed he shouldn’t keep body parts in the fridge.  
  
“That’s nice,” John said and cleared his throat. This conversation was getting too heavy. “So, should we talk about our wedding?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John,” Greg said over the phone.  
  
“Greg,” John said and sipped his tea.  
  
Greg cleared his throat. “John –“  
  
John frowned. “Greg –“  
  
“John,” Greg said. He sounded a little odd. Maybe he had caught something. “Sherlock told me the news.”  
  
“Oh,” John said. “The _news._ ” Greg was talking about the case, then. That was great. Maybe Sherlock had told him something he hadn’t bothered to tell John. Every time John tried to talk about the case with Sherlock, Sherlock changed the topic to the wedding. This morning, Sherlock had wanted to talk about the music. “Great,” John said to Greg. “So, do you have any new evidence?”  
  
“Evidence?” Greg asked. “No, I was talking about the wedding.”  
  
John blinked, looking at Sherlock, who was sitting in the sofa with John’s laptop. John had asked him a while ago what he was doing and he had said ‘pinterest’ _._ John didn’t know what a pinterest was, but it didn’t sound good, so he had decided not to ask more. “The wedding,” John said slowly. But surely Sherlock had told Greg that the wedding was about the case -  
  
“Yeah,” Greg said. “I have to admit, I was a little surprised at first. I thought you’d be more stubborn about it.”  
  
John bit his lip. Sherlock was throwing quick glances at him from the sofa. “Stubborn?” he said, trying to ignore Sherlock. He had always been very bad at that.  
  
“Yeah,” Greg said, “well, of course I know that you love him, but marriage is a big step, and maybe I… I don’t mean to say that you aren’t… brave guy, John, because you certainly are, but I thought that maybe you were a little bit…”  
  
John took a very deep breath.  
  
“…in the closet,” Greg said. “Well, shit, I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to say that. I was going to say that… congratulations, and I’m so happy for both of you.”  
  
“Thank you,” John said and bit his lip.  
  
“Anyway, I’m sure you’re busy planning your wedding, but if you want to go for a pint or something, just tell me.” Greg was quiet for a moment. “And remember, planning the damn thing is a circus. Things will go back to normal once you’re actually married and don’t have to stress about the guests and the food and the colour themes anymore. And then you’ll remember again why you love each other.”  
  
John swallowed. “We don’t have a colour theme.”  
  
“Really? Because I thought Sherlock said something about purple. Do you have the rings yet?”  
  
“…no, we don’t have the rings yet,” John said. Apparently he couldn’t stop looking at Sherlock now. Sherlock had forgotten about the pin-something and was clearly trying to read his mind.   
  
“He mentioned he didn’t have the ring when he proposed,” Greg said. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I think he thought you wouldn’t accept. To be honest, he was still talking about it as if it was a bit difficult to believe you did.”  
  
“Okay,” John said. His voice came out oddly thin. Why hadn’t Sherlock told Greg that the wedding was for the case? Certainly they needed Greg’s help with the murderous wedding planner. Didn’t Sherlock trust Greg anymore? That was incredibly hard to believe.  
  
“Oh, shit, I have to go,” Greg said over the phone. “I’m in the park and someone I dated two years ago for a short while is walking towards me. I’m going to pretend that I didn’t notice her and run back home. See you later, John.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, “bye.” There was a sound of footsteps and then a faint ‘Greg Lestrade, is that really you?’  
  
He hung up.  
  
“So,” Sherlock said slowly, “what do you think of purple?”  
  
John straightened his back. “Purple?”  
  
“And gold,” Sherlock said. “I was thinking, purple and gold. For our wedding.”  
  
“The colour theme,” John said.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it again. He supposed his favourite colour was blue, or maybe grey. But he trusted Sherlock. “I trust you.”  
  
“But I want you to like it.”  
  
“I’m sure whatever you pick is going to be great.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him.  
  
“Alright,” he said and sighed, “isn’t gold a bit…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“A bit too much?”  
  
“Too much?”  
  
“What about…” He bit his lip. “White?”  
  
“White and purple,” Sherlock said, watching him as if he was seeing John for the first time. “That might work. And maybe gold is a bit too much. For you.”  
  
John tried not to smile. He really tried. Also, he didn’t have a fucking clue why he was smiling. “Well, thank you very much.”  
  
“Your favourite colour is green, after all.”  
  
“No, it’s…” Oh, shit, his favourite colour _was_ green. “How did you know?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
  
“Hey,” John said. “We don’t have the rings yet.”  
  
Sherlock blinked at him. “No, we don’t.”  
  
“Should we… go shopping? Or can we just, I don’t know, get them online?”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said. “Should we… do you want to go today?”  
  
John shrugged. He didn’t have anything else going on. “Sure. After lunch?”  
  
“Yeah,” Sherlock said, suddenly sounding cheerful. “What’re we eating?”  
  
“Leftover from yesterday,” John said and sipped his tea. “Once we’re married, are you going to start cooking for me?”  
  
Sherlock blinked at him. “Do you want me to?”  
  
“Yes,” he said, “yes, please, definitely. Just… I don’t want to accidentally eat anything that’s been human once, alright?”  
  
“I wouldn’t do that –“  
  
“You might. Sometimes when you’re thinking about something else, you just don’t know what you’re doing. I found your socks in the freezer yesterday.”  
  
Sherlock glared at him. “And what did you do with them?”  
  
“Took them out, of course.”  
  
“They were there for a reason!”  
  
“Really?” he asked. “And what reason was that?”  
  
Sherlock pressed his mouth shut.  
  
“Let me tell you,” John said, trying to sound like he meant it, “if you ever trick me into putting frozen socks on my feet, I’m not going to talk to you for a week.”  
  
“You couldn’t do that.”  
  
Sherlock was right. John would break in a day. “Try me.”  
  
Sherlock swallowed. “You really want me to cook for you?”  
  
“Why not?” John asked and grabbed the morning newspaper.  
  
After lunch, they went to a jewellery store. Sherlock spent forty-five minutes looking at different wedding rings, and John spent forty-five minutes looking at Sherlock. He didn’t exactly understand why Sherlock wanted the fake rings to be so expensive, but then again, they wouldn’t have to return them, right? They could keep the rings as a memory.  
  
“Try this,” Sherlock said, holding a simple gold ring. John gave Sherlock his hand, and Sherlock put the ring on his finger. “What do you think? Is it too tight?”  
  
“It’s perfect,” he said. “How much is it?”  
  
“Don’t think about it,” Sherlock said. “I’ve got Mycroft’s credit card.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“I’m so sorry,” Sherlock said, hung his coat and walked straight to the kitchen. “I was going to warn you, but they distracted me.”  
  
John stood up from his armchair. Goddamn. He didn’t have his gun with him. He didn’t even have _trousers_. “What –“  
  
“Good morning,” someone said from the doorway. It was Sherlock’s mouther’s voice. “I’m sorry we didn’t call beforehand, but we were in town, and we just wanted to say hi – _oh._ ”  
  
John took a deep breath and smiled at Sherlock’s mother. “Hi. Good morning. I’m just going to –“  
  
“Put your pants on, John,” Sherlock said from the kitchen.  
  
“I’m wearing _pants_ ,” John said, “I just didn’t… I wasn’t expecting…” Oh, _shit._ “Just a moment.” He walked up the stairs to his bedroom, put trousers on and changed his shirt while he was at it. Sherlock had bought him a new one just last week, after they had spent two hours planning their wedding with the suspect. Well, Karen. Her name was Karen, and she had been wearing a nice blue dress, and for a second John had forgotten she was a suspect and had tried to flirt with her. Luckily, Sherlock had kicked him in the ankle, so he had realised his mistake. He still had the bruise. Maybe Sherlock had felt bad about kicking him so hard, because afterwards, Sherlock had insisted buying him a nice green shirt that was actually of his size.  
  
“Oh, John, you look nice,” Sherlock’s mother said when he went back downstairs.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him from the kitchen. “That’s the shirt I got you.”  
  
“Yeah, it is,” he said and walked to Sherlock. “So, we’re drinking tea?”  
  
“Apparently,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. “Can you –“  
  
“Pastries, yeah. In the freezer.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
“We went to an art gallery just around the corner,” Sherlock’s mother said from the living room.  
  
“A very interesting exhibition,” Sherlock’s father said.  
  
“And then we realised we haven’t seen you two in ages,” Sherlock’s mother said.  
  
“Since last Christmas,” Sherlock’s father said.  
  
“And that it’d be nice to see you,” Sherlock’s mother said.  
  
“Before the wedding,” Sherlock’s father said.  
  
John took a deep breath and then kept looking for the pastries. Finally he found them on the top shelf, behind the fingers.  
  
“We got the invitation yesterday,” Sherlock’s mother said. “It was very nice. Beautiful.”  
  
“Well, yeah,” John said and put the pastries into the microwave. “Sherlock did the design himself.”  
  
“We’re so happy for you,” Sherlock’s father said.  
  
John glanced at Sherlock, who was staring at the tea kettle.  
  
“Yeah,” John said over his shoulder. “We’re happy too. Of course.”  
  
“Young people don’t get married so often these days,” Sherlock’s mother said. “I guess it’s a culture thing. The times are changing. So, I guess we thought you had chosen not to, you know, get married. And we respected that. Obviously. But it’s a lovely gesture, to celebrate your love and life together, with your friends and family.”  
  
“Mother,” Sherlock said in a tense tone.  
  
“Sorry, dear. I just wanted to let you know how happy we are.”  
  
“You have certainly done that,” Sherlock said and poured tea in four cups. “You already did that over the phone.”  
  
“I’m so glad he found you,” Sherlock’s mother said at John when he took the pastries to the sofa table. “You’ve made such a difference for him.”  
  
He went back to the kitchen to help Sherlock with the tea. Sherlock wasn’t looking him in the eyes, so he just took two cups and settled them on the sofa table next to the pastries. “Well, I’d be lost without him, so we’re even. How are you? Anything new?”  
  
“We have been trying to trim the hedge,” Sherlock’s father said.  
  
John sat down in his armchair and talked with Sherlock’s parents about the garden and the weather and the books he had read lately, and about the wedding plans. Sherlock was quiet, but the odd part was that he didn’t complain that the conversation was dull. He even ate his croissant and said thank you when John poured him more tea.  
  
“We’ll see you in the wedding,” Sherlock’s mother said later, when they were about to leave and were already standing in the doorway with their coats on.  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, looking impatient but in a subtle way: he didn’t sigh dramatically.  
  
“It was nice to see you,” John said, placed his hand on Sherlock’s back and rubbed the fabric with his thumb.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him.  
  
 _Oh, god._  
  
“Yes, it was,” Sherlock’s mother said, while John was thinking that _good lord,_ he had his hand on Sherlock’s back as if they were… getting married or something. “Goodbye, dear,” she said to Sherlock. “Don’t forget to eat.”  
  
“I think it’s going to rain today,” Sherlock’s father said, and then they left.  
  
John pulled his hand back the moment Sherlock’s parents were gone. “Sorry.”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, looked at him, frowned, closed his mouth and opened it again. “You can do that.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“…yes.”  
  
John raised his hand. Sherlock leaned away from him. He raised his eyebrows, Sherlock cleared his throat.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t apologise,” he said to Sherlock, “I just… you don’t want me to touch you. It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine.”  
  
“Of course I want you to touch me,” Sherlock said. His voice was sharp and a little off. “I just didn’t think that you were going to. Try again.”  
  
John stared at him. “I’m not going to just _touch you_ if you _flinch._ ”  
  
“I’m not going to _flinch,_ ” Sherlock said. “Do it.”  
  
John sighed and then, just to prove his point, he took a step closer to Sherlock and placed his hand on Sherlock’s back again. Sherlock was relaxed like a stone wall. John splayed his fingers. “See? You don’t like it. It’s fine. We don’t need to do it.”  
  
“No, that’s…” Sherlock paused and breathed out. John wondered vaguely why he was still touching Sherlock’s back. “You’re reading this wrong, John.”  
  
“I don’t believe I am.”  
  
“I like it when you touch me. I _do_. But that was… that was a different sort of… touching, and I got surprised.”  
  
“Nothing surprises you.”  
  
“Oh, _please_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding impatient now. That was good. That was normal. John rubbed his knuckles gently against Sherlock’s back.  
  
“Alright, maybe some things surprise you. But I couldn’t –“  
  
“You surprise me all the time.”  
  
John bit his lip, thinking about what Greg had said to him over the phone almost two weeks ago. Sherlock had been surprised when John had accepted the… proposal. Even though it was about a case.  
  
“See?” Sherlock asked. “I like it.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re still touching me. And I didn’t flinch.”  
  
John stilled his hand and then pulled it back. Well, he didn’t know about Sherlock, but _he_ certainly liked it. Touching. People. Sherlock, preferably, because he was around Sherlock all the time these days. He supposed he just was like that.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said in an odd tone. If John hadn’t known better, he would have thought Sherlock was nervous. “Would you like some tea?”  
  
“We just had –,” John started, and then bit his lip. “Of course. Thank you.”  
  
“Great,” Sherlock said and went to the kitchen.  
  
  
**  
  
  
John met Greg in the pub just around the corner from 221B. He had asked Sherlock if Sherlock wanted to come too, and Sherlock had looked at him as if he was wondering how the hell John was functioning at all when he was so apparently delirious. So, that had been a ‘no’.  
  
“John,” Greg said and first hugged him, then patted him on the shoulder. “Glad to see you. You two haven’t been around a lot lately.”  
  
“No, we –“  
  
“I understand. It’s the wedding. It takes all your time to plan the damn thing. I texted Sherlock about the coffee murderer and he texted me back that he had to choose the flowers.”  
  
John cleared his throat. “The coffee murderer –“  
  
“Didn’t he tell you?” Greg asked and turned to the bartender. “Two beers, thanks.”  
  
“I can –“  
  
“It’s on me,” Greg said and squeezed John’s shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”  
  
“That makes two of us,” John said, and Greg laughed. But what was actually funny was that it was easier and easier to sometimes forget – just for a moment, of course, like, for half an hour, or one afternoon – that he and Sherlock weren’t getting married for real. The wedding would be in two weeks, Sherlock still though the wedding planner was the murderer – John had asked – and still didn’t have the evidence – John had asked about that, too – and it really seemed that the wedding was going to happen. They had the church. They had the place for the reception, some kind of a… house. They had a cake. They had flowers. They had guests coming. They even had the goddamn rings, and last night, John had taken his out of the box and tried it on. It fit him perfectly.  
  
And he had recently realised he sometimes touched Sherlock. Okay, he touched Sherlock often. More than once a day. Sometimes when Sherlock was doing something in the kitchen, John walked to him and instead of just standing next to him, he put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind, so maybe he had meant it when he had said he liked it when John touched him. And John liked touching. So, he squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder sometimes, or patted Sherlock’s arm, or brushed his fingers against the back of Sherlock’s hand, or rubbed Sherlock’s knee when they sitting side by side on the sofa. It didn’t mean anything. Or well, it meant something, it meant that Sherlock was his favourite person in the whole fucking world.  
  
Sometimes he wondered if he ought to be worried about all this. They had told everyone they were getting married and everyone believed them. _John_ believed it sometimes. Surely this wasn’t healthy. But he didn’t remember the last time when he had been this happy, so he always postponed worrying about this for another day.  
  
Now, he was on his third beer with Greg when Greg stopped talking about his broken washing machine and asked John how it had happened.  
  
“What?” John asked.  
  
“You and Sherlock,” Greg said, looking him in the eyes. “You never told me. And he didn’t either. I’m a little offended, by the way. I thought we were friends, and still I had to figure out on my own that you two are…”  
  
“A couple,” John said and bit his lip. Oh, god, this was bad. He had to tell Greg the truth. He absolutely had to. He just… “Does it matter?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“If we’re a couple or not,” he said and took a deep breath. “We’re… we’re living together, and we’re best friends, and we… god, he picked a toothbrush for me last month. We’re closer than… I’ve never been this close with anyone before. Does it matter if we’re a couple or not?”  
  
Greg watched him. “Of course it does. Doesn’t it?”  
  
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d do anything for him. You know that. When he died… when I thought he died, I didn’t know how to… I genuinely felt that I was going to die, too.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Greg said, “I was there. I could see it. It was… I remember, John.”  
  
“And when he came back,” John said and emptied his glass of beer, “when he came back, I kind of… I felt that I could never let him go again. Never. It was kind of… I had lost him once and it was fucking clear to me that I didn’t want to lose him again. That I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear it.”  
  
Greg nodded. “Was that when you knew?”  
  
“…knew what?”  
  
“That you love him?”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it again. “I don’t know about that.”  
  
“Because I thought,” Greg said slowly, moving his pint back and forth on the table, “I kind of thought it was… unrequited.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“I felt sorry for him. He was so… And I didn’t know if you even realised. You were always telling people that you aren’t gay, and he was right there, and he didn’t say anything, and I… I thought that maybe you just didn’t realise.”  
  
John bit his lip. “What do you –“  
  
“I’m glad I was wrong,” Greg said, smiled and straightened his back. “Okay. Is it weird if I ask you about the sex?”  
  
John blinked. “Yeah.”  
  
“No details, of course,” Greg said, “I wouldn’t want to hear any details, absolutely not, you don’t have to tell me anything. But I’ve never heard that he’d dated anyone or been with anyone or… anything of that sort. At all. And I’ve known him for years. Must be almost ten years by now. So, I was just thinking… yeah.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said. He had a weird feeling that Greg was trying to ask him what it was like to have sex with Sherlock, because Sherlock had never… “You think he’s never had sex?”  
  
Greg frowned at him. “No, I meant… yeah. Before you, of course. Because you are…”  
  
John swallowed. Oh, god, he needed more beer.  
  
“You’re having sex,” Greg said slowly, “aren’t you?”  
  
“Yes,” John said. “Yes. We have sex.”  
  
“Okay,” Greg said.  
  
“Like two people who are getting married, yes,” John said. “Gay sex. Because we are… because he is…”  
  
“Yeah,” Greg said. He looked a little confused now.  
  
John cleared his throat. He needed to do this better. Sherlock would be so disappointed in him if he blew up their whole plan to catch the murderer, and just because he couldn’t talk about sex. “Every night,” he said and then bit his lip. No one had sex every goddamn night. “Well, not _every_ night, I just meant… we have sex. Often. Maybe… three times a week? In the bed. In our bed. Where we… sleep. And have sex.”  
  
“Right,” Greg said, sounding sceptical, almost as if he didn’t believe John and Sherlock had a bed in which they slept and had sex.  
  
John took a deep breath. _Bloody fucking hell._ He couldn’t do this. Now he was thinking about Sherlock and him in bed, in _Sherlock’s_ bed actually, together, and naked. There was no way he could talk with Greg and appear normal. “I need to go,” he said and stood up. “Sorry. I just… Sherlock said that I shouldn’t be too late, so that we can… have sex.”  
  
“Okay,” Greg said and stood up as well. “John, I just… is everything alright? Between you and Sherlock?”  
  
“Of course,” John said, took his phone and glanced at it. “Oh, right. Sherlock needs me. I really should go.”  
  
“Because if you have… if you have second thoughts about the marriage,” Greg said, sounding absolutely terrified, “I think you should just tell him. It’s better to cancel the wedding than get married if you don’t really want to.”  
  
 _We aren’t really getting married_ , John thought and smiled at Greg as calmly as he could. Greg only looked more worried.  
  
“Everything’s alright,” John said. “I love him. I just need to go now. We can do this again another day, alright?”  
  
“Sure,” Greg said and then came with him to the street. Thank god they were going to the opposite directions. He told Greg he’d call, and Greg told him to say hi to Sherlock, and then he started walking down the pavement as quickly as he could without running. It was raining now. His shoes got wet and his face got wet, and when he finally got home, his pullover was wet as well. He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.  
  
“That bad?” Sherlock asked from the sofa.  
  
“No,” John said and walked straight to the bathroom. He left the door ajar and started taking off his wet clothes. “No, it was nice. I just… wanted to get home.” Sherlock didn’t answer. John took off his socks. “How was your night?”  
  
“Ordinary,” Sherlock said. “I thought you’d be late.”  
  
John bit his lip and opened the zipper of his trousers. “Did you want to be alone? Because if you had plans, I’m sure I can go to my bedroom and pretend I’m not there.”  
  
“Absolutely not,” Sherlock said from the living room. “Are you going to take a shower?”  
  
“Yes,” John said and took off his shirt.  
  
“Do you want to do something afterwards?”  
  
“…like what?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. “Maybe we could watch television.”  
  
“You hate television,” John said and then went to the bathroom door. Sherlock was looking at him from the sofa. “Of course we can. Just give me ten minutes first. I feel like I’ve walked through a hundred puddles to get here.”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock said and stared at him as he closed the door.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Hey, Sherlock,” he said, when they were making name plates for their guests, “do you ever have sex?”  
  
Sherlock dropped the pen. John ignored how warm his own face felt suddenly, picked the pen up from the floor and gave it back to Sherlock.  
  
“Here you go.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said, taking the pen. He was writing the names to the tiny pieces of cardboard John was cutting and folding for him. When they had talked about the name plates, Sherlock had wanted something white and shiny, but John had seen folded cardboard pieces on Pinterest. He thought they were cute. He had told Sherlock that and finally Sherlock had agreed. “What’s this about?”  
  
“I don’t know,” John said. “I’m just making conversation.”  
  
“You’ve never asked me about this before.”  
  
“I’ve tried to. I just… was subtle about it and you ignored me.”  
  
Sherlock frowned. “You aren’t very subtle now.”  
  
“Well,” John said, trying to cut a perfectly square piece of cardboard, “we’re getting married, aren’t we? Maybe that’s something I should know.”  
  
“But you don’t have sex with me,” Sherlock said, not looking at him. “Why do you care if I have sex with other people?”  
  
“I don’t,” he said and then bit his lip. “Sorry, that was… of course I _care._ I meant that… do you?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“Did you ever?”  
  
“Are you asking me if I have ever had sex?”  
  
“Well… yes.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“…what?” John asked, almost cutting his finger off, because he couldn’t stop staring at Sherlock.  
  
“Yes, I have had sex,” Sherlock said in the tone he used when someone was being an idiot.  
  
“I didn’t know that.”  
  
“You never asked.”  
  
“I’m asking you now,” John said and then took a deep breath. “When? And…”  
  
“I had a boyfriend in the university,” Sherlock said.  
  
“A –“  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You had a boyfriend.”  
  
Sherlock blinked. “Well, kind of. It didn’t last long. Not like…” And he glanced at John.  
  
“You and me,” John said and cleared his throat. “I hope you know that… that you can talk about this kind of things with me. We’re friends, Sherlock, I’m your… I’m your best friend. We can talk about this stuff. Like… if you’re in love with someone, or something.”  
  
Sherlock stared at him.  
  
“Not that you would be,” he said and looked down at his hands. He really needed to be careful with the scissors. He wanted to keep all his fingers. “Because you’re so clever and busy and also marrying me. Maybe you’re immune. To falling in love.”  
  
“I’m not immune,” Sherlock said in a low voice.  
  
“Anyway,” John said, “how many pieces do I need to cut? How many have you – Sherlock, you’ve written your mother’s name three times!”  
  
“You distracted me,” Sherlock said. “You started talking about sex!”  
  
“Because I was curious,” John said and then took a deep breath. “But you aren’t having any sex now?”  
  
“Now?” Sherlock asked, looking at the pile of name plates.  
  
“I mean,” John said, “ _now_ , like… this year? Or… when I’ve known you?”  
  
“Not really,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Not at all?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“Don’t you want to?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, “I want to. But just not with anyone.”  
  
“I’m sure you could find someone. I mean, you are… the way you look and… your brain.”  
  
“Well, thank you so much for your input.”  
  
“No, I didn’t mean… are you angry?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said, took the scissors from John’s hand and cut a name plate with his mother’s name in it in two pieces. “I’m not angry. I just don’t need you to find me someone to shag.”  
  
“I wasn’t trying to!”  
  
“Yes, you were.”  
  
“No, I… maybe a little bit. But I don’t _want_ you to shag someone, I just…”  
  
Sherlock glanced at him.  
  
“I want you to be happy,” he said and took the scissors back from Sherlock. He needed to cut more cardboard pieces.  
  
“I’m not unhappy,” Sherlock said, watching him. “These past years, since I came back and you moved back in with me… I haven’t been unhappy.”  
  
“I hope you aren’t unhappy about marrying me,” he said. Cardboard pieces. More cardboard pieces. He should focus on that.  
  
“I’m certainly not,” Sherlock said and took a deep breath. “John, I –“  
  
Someone knocked on the door.  
  
“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said, dropping the name plates. “We’re hungry. Or thirsty. Or… something. How’s your hip?”  
  
“Oh, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, opening the door, “it’s terrible. Do you have tea? Because that’d be nice.”  
  
“I’ll put the kettle on,” John said and stood up. Oh, god, his fingers hurt. Apparently he had been squeezing the scissors. Also, he had a weird feeling, as if he wasn’t completely sure what he had talked about with Sherlock just now. But he could think about it later.  
  
“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson said in the living room, “I love your handwriting, but why is there at least thirty name plates with your mother’s name on them?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John tossed around in his bed for almost three hours before finally giving up. He put on his sweatpants and a t-shirt and opened the door as quietly as he could. The light was still on in the living room.  
  
“Try drinking less coffee,” Sherlock said from the sofa, when John walked to the kitchen.  
  
“Coffee doesn’t affect me.”  
  
“Of course it does. Even though you don’t recognise the effects –“  
  
“And you should be sleeping, too,” John said, drank a glass of water and put it in the sink. He kind of wanted to make tea but more caffeine at this hour probably wasn’t a good idea. “What’re you doing?”  
  
“I function considerably better than you even if I don’t sleep,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Bullshit,” John said and went to the living room. Sherlock was still on the sofa, half-sitting and half-lying, like he had been three hours ago when John had told him good night and had gone upstairs. “You didn’t even try to sleep, you idiot.”  
  
“I was thinking,” Sherlock said, looking at him, “about the seating order. Maybe we should put Greg next to Andy, you know, your friend from the university. The one who says _oh bugger_ approximately three times a minute.”  
  
John walked to the sofa and patted Sherlock on the knee. “Move over.” Sherlock folded his knees, and John sat down. “Greg’s straight.”  
  
“No, he’s not.”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it again. “Well, Andy is straight.”  
  
Sherlock snorted.  
  
“What? Really?”  
  
“He touched my… bottom when we were in the bar, you know, that one time when you wanted me to meet all your old friends. I still don’t understand why.”  
  
John bit his lip. “He touched you… I’m going to fucking kill Andy –“  
  
“Highly unnecessary,” Sherlock said, but he was smiling. He was sideways on the sofa and his toes were pressing against John’s thigh.  
  
John took a deep breath and put his hand on Sherlock’s knee.  
  
“He was just trying to flirt,” Sherlock said. “I wasn’t offended. Anyway, he didn’t try again, because he… he made a few conclusions about the nature of our relationship.”  
  
John blinked.  
  
“He thought I was with you.”  
  
“Yeah, no, I got that.” Well, it also explained a few things Andy had said to John ever since that night. “So, the seating order. Is that why you’re refusing to get some sleep? You’re worried about the seating order?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head slowly.  
  
“What’s it, then? The photographer? Because I told you, if the one we hired can’t recover from the flu before Saturday, my cousin Helen has a pretty good camera and she’s coming anyway, so –“  
  
“I already asked someone else to take the photographs,” Sherlock said, “a professional photographer. We can’t have your cousin Helen take the photos of our wedding, John, that’s just… non-negotiable. Sorry.”  
  
“Okay,” John said, rubbing Sherlock’s knee with his thumb. “So, what’s wrong? The flowers? Did you change your mind? Because the wedding is in two days. I don’t think we can change our order –“  
  
“Of course not,” Sherlock said. “The flowers are fine. John, I have to ask you something.”  
  
John took a deep breath. That sounded bad. “Well, go ahead then. Ask me.”  
  
“Do you want to call this thing off?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
Sherlock was looking at him. He looked back at Sherlock, squeezing Sherlock’s knee, because that was where his hand was and he needed support.  
  
“Why would I want to call it off?” he asked, wondering vaguely why he sounded so shocked. It wasn’t _real._  
  
“When I asked,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he really didn’t want to say anything at all, “when I asked, I thought we’d negotiate. I’d… give you a list of pros and cons and we’d argue about it and finally you’d accept that this was a good idea. A practical idea. But you just said yes. And obviously I… I’m glad that you did. But I still don’t know _why_.”  
  
John opened his mouth.  
  
“And I can’t stop thinking about it,” Sherlock said. “I can’t stop wondering why the hell you accepted.”  
  
“You know why I accepted,” John said, trying to keep his voice steady. It came out too sharp.  
  
“No, I don’t,” Sherlock said. “Explain.”  
  
“I won’t –,” John began, then took a deep breath. _Bloody hell._ He just needed to say that it was for the case, they had to catch the murderer, they had to gather the evidence, that was what this was all about, that was why Sherlock had asked him to… But the last time they had seen Karen about the wedding plans, John had barely managed to think about the case at all, because he had been too busy planning his wedding. And he didn’t know when that had happened, but at some point he had stopped thinking that they’d manage to catch her before the actual wedding. Instead, he had started to think that he would marry Sherlock. On Saturday. This Saturday, to be exact. He would meet Sherlock in the aisle and say that he would take Sherlock to be his wedded husband, to have and to hold from that day forward, for better and for worse, just like he had done these past years. Just like he was going to keep doing anyway. He didn’t want to live without Sherlock. And he had told himself multiple times that it didn’t matter if they were a _couple_ or not. It didn’t. It just didn’t. He could… he could probably have sex with someone else, sometimes, and then come home to Sherlock, or if Sherlock didn’t like that, well, it wasn’t so important to him anyway. He could manage to live without sex if he had to, but if he lost Sherlock again, he would fucking die.  
  
“…John?”  
  
So, for better and for worse. For richer and for poorer, even though Sherlock was so famous these days that they didn’t have any problems getting cases, only lately Sherlock had turned everyone down because he were so busy with their wedding plans. And sure, John would love and cherish Sherlock. In sickness and in health, only he had bought vitamins and he was going to make Sherlock take them. Regularly.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said, “John, what’re you thinking about?”  
  
John breathed in. “Nothing.”  
  
“You look angry.”  
  
“You’re going take vitamins,” he said and glanced at Sherlock. Oh, god, he couldn’t tell Sherlock that he was doing this only for the case, because it wasn’t true anymore. He cleared his throat. “Do you want to call it off? The wedding? Is that why you asked?”  
  
“No,” Sherlock said immediately, “absolutely not, I just… I think I need you to… mean it.”  
  
“Well, I mean it,” John said and then realised he was squeezing Sherlock’s knee pretty hard. He eased his fingers and rested them on Sherlock’s leg instead. Sherlock didn’t have socks on. “It’s good, really. Makes me think you aren’t going to leave me behind again.”  
  
“I never wanted to leave you behind,” Sherlock said.  
  
John touched Sherlock’s toes. Sherlock flinched but didn’t say anything. “You’ve got hairy toes.”  
  
“You’ve got hairy toes, too,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Yeah, but you’re much prettier than me.”  
  
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “I am not, and also what’s that got to do with hairy toes?”  
  
“Absolutely nothing,” John said, brushing his forefinger against Sherlock’s hairy toe. “What do you do with your nails? Trim them?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Makes sense,” John said. Sherlock’s toenails were very neat. “So, we’re getting married.”  
  
“Seems that way,” Sherlock said. “I don’t want you to regret it.”  
  
“I’m not going to regret it. Are you going to regret it?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Good,” John said and looked at Sherlock. “You can’t stay up the whole night. You have to sleep. We’re getting married on Saturday and I need you to be awake for the ceremony.”  
  
“I’m sure I’ll be able to not fall asleep in our wedding,” Sherlock said. He sounded a little out of breath. Maybe he was ticklish. “John?”  
  
“What?” John asked, standing up.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“…whatever fuck for?”  
  
“Marrying me.”  
  
“Bloody hell,” he said. He was going to pat Sherlock on the shoulder. He brushed his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek instead. “You’re the one who got the short end of the stick in this bargain. _I_ should be thanking _you._ ”  
  
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said, looking at him with wide eyes.  
  
“I love you too,” he said and breathed out. “Good night. Promise me you’ll sleep?”  
  
Sherlock nodded. He looked like he had barely recognised what John had just said to him, but John didn’t have the energy to argue about the importance of sleeping right now. He turned and went back upstairs.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“John!” Harry said, walking to John through the crowd of people. “I was right!”  
  
John gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. “Yeah, you were. I’m glad you came.”  
  
“ _I’m_ glad,” Harry said and hugged him. “Where’s he?”  
  
John turned. “He’s –“ Well, apparently Sherlock was harassing the photographer. “I think I should go –“  
  
“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning widely, “go. Save the photographer from your man.”  
  
“He’s not my –“ John bit his lip. “Yeah. See you later.” Then he turned and walked to Sherlock as quickly as he could. The photographer looked about ready to fuck off, but he managed to make Sherlock apologise. The photographer looked unhappy and Sherlock looked unhappy, so John grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the photographer.  
  
“I was just telling her what we want,” Sherlock said. His voice was tight as if he was thinking about a hundred things at the same time. He probably was. He had been like that since this morning, when John had woken up and found him downstairs, pacing around in the flat and doing god knows what with nothing but his boxers on.  
  
“Just let her do her job,” John said. He hadn’t let go of Sherlock’s arm yet. Maybe it was safer not to. “Hey. Look at me. Are you alright?”  
  
“Of course I’m _alright_ ,” Sherlock said, not looking at him, “why wouldn’t I be? The flowers don’t look good. And some of the guests are late. And I don’t like the minister. And what about the musicians? I should go talk to them about tuning –“  
  
“No,” John said, grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and tugged until Sherlock was facing him. “No, you need to talk to me. What is this? Are you nervous?”  
  
“Oh my god,” Sherlock said, “I’m not nervous, I’m just –“ And then he went really quiet.  
  
“Hey,” John said, keeping his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He brushed his thumbs against Sherlock’s throat, lightly, just above the collar. Sherlock swallowed. “I’m nervous, too. I’m fucking nervous, Sherlock, I could barely sleep last night. We’re in this together. _Look at me._ ”  
  
Sherlock blinked and looked at him.  
  
“I’m here. Don’t worry about the rest, I’m here and we’re getting through this together.”  
  
Sherlock nodded slowly.  
  
“If you still want to.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “yes, I want to. Do you?”  
  
“Yeah,” John said. “So, have you eaten anything at all today? Because you refused to eat breakfast and locked yourself into the bathroom to do something with your hair. So, I brought a few chocolate bars with me, if you want one.”  
  
Sherlock licked his lips. “That might be… not a terrible idea.”  
  
“Good,” John said and gave Sherlock a chocolate bar. “Let’s do this. Let’s get married.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
“When John accepted my proposal,” Sherlock said to the room full of friends, family and other people, “I was surprised. I have known John for six years, three months and eleven days. When I first got to know him, I thought he was confusing, brave, averagely clever, surprisingly not irritating, stubborn, and very eager to have sex with women who are, as he would put it, sexually attractive. Once he had sex with two different women within a week. He didn’t often bring his dates to our home, maybe to spare my feelings, for which I was grateful even though I might have failed to show it to him then, mostly because I was also so jealous I worried it might temporarily impair my mental abilities.”  
  
“Oh my god,” John said and then realised he had said it out loud. _Shit._  
  
Sherlock glanced at him. He looked at Sherlock.  
  
“I’m giving a speech, John,” Sherlock said to him. “It’s customary.”  
  
He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… go on.”  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said and smiled at their guests. John grabbed his own knees and told himself that whatever was coming, he was going to live through it, and this night, he and Sherlock would go back home, together, and all this craziness would be behind them, and everything would be fine.  
  
“So,” Sherlock said. “where was I? Oh, yes. John was having sex with women. He also informed everyone that he wasn’t gay. Therefore I made a conclusion that our friendship would always stay that way, and I respected that. I did. I _do._ I… I hadn’t had a friend before I met John, and his friendship turned out to be not only highly practical in situations in which I needed immediate medical care, but also strangely touching. When I pretended to be dead for two years, I was worried about him. I missed him, as people say. And when I came back, I was relieved to find out that after punching me in the face three times he told me he would forgive me. He didn’t, not until approximately four months later, when I got slightly poisoned during a case and he was somewhat agitated about that. But it was worth it, because that incident made him really forgive me. And also we caught a serial killer.” Sherlock paused. “John? Are you laughing?”  
  
John bit his lip. He genuinely didn’t know if he was laughing or crying. “No. Just go on, dear.”  
  
Sherlock nodded at him perfectly seriously. Oh, god, he didn’t understand how he had managed to put up with this idiot for so long, and why he wanted to do so for the rest of his life.  
  
“I love John Watson,” Sherlock said. “I have loved him since he first shot a –“  
  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John hissed.  
  
“Since he first told me he wasn’t interested,” Sherlock said. “That was our first night together. Well, I may have accidentally told him that I wasn’t interested either, but that was only because I was panicking. It had been ten years since I had been in love and it was terrifying. It is still terrifying. I even let him pick white for our colour theme, even though gold would have been a much better choice.”  
  
“Hey,” John said, “hey, now, you said white is better.”  
  
“I lied,” Sherlock said but looked at him. “How do I finish this thing, John? I didn’t write an ending for my speech.”  
  
John realised he was smiling.  
  
“What should I say? Congratulations and merry Christmas?”  
  
“It’s not Christmas, you git,” John said and stood up. “It’s our wedding. Come here.”  
  
“What’re you doing?” Sherlock asked, frowning at him.  
  
He _was_ going to hug Sherlock. But his chest felt tight and not only because Sherlock had talked him into wearing a shirt that was too small _again_ , and he had a feeling that there was something about Sherlock’s speech that he needed to carefully think about later, and half of their guests were crying a little and the other half was sighing happily, and Sherlock was _right there_ , looking great and smelling fucking _awesome._  
  
“I’m going to kiss you,” John said, took Sherlock’s face in between his hands, rose on his toes and kissed Sherlock on the mouth.  
  
Sherlock went absolutely still.  
  
“Sorry,” John said, pulling away. “Sorry, that was –“  
  
“It’s alright,” Sherlock said. He was staring at John with wide eyes.  
  
John opened his mouth, and then everyone started clapping.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“Hi,” Sherlock said, walking to John.  
  
“Hi,” John said. He was sitting on the bench outside, watching the garden. People inside were still dancing and the lights came through the windows and coloured the lawn.  
  
Sherlock sat down on the bench next to him. “You left.”  
  
“Yeah,” he said. “I just needed… some fresh air. And to get out of there for a moment.”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “The dance moves these people have are quite peculiar.”  
  
John breathed in. “I liked dancing with you, though.”  
  
“…really?”  
  
“It was nice.”  
  
Sherlock was quiet for a while. The chorus of _I Want To Know What Love Is_ echoed through the wall. “You were leaning against me.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Like you wanted to… be close to me or something.”  
  
“It shouldn’t be a surprise to you at this point,” John said, keeping his eyes in a tree that looked a bit weird. “That I want to be close to you, I mean.”  
  
“I don’t understand it,” Sherlock said slowly. “I don’t understand your motives, I don’t understand your thought processes. There’re too many factors to consider. And I’m impaired. I’m… my personal interests are affecting my ability to deduct the reasons behind your behaviour.”  
  
John cleared his throat and then placed his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “Can I do this?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “But why are you doing it? There’re too many possible explanations. Maybe it’s a habit. Maybe you miss dating women and are reflecting that on me. Maybe you realise that I’m nervous and want to comfort me and rightly think that touching me diminishes my emotional distress. Or maybe you…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Maybe you wish to include more physical proximity to our relationship and this is your way of suggesting it.”  
  
“I…” John paused. He didn’t know what he was thinking. “I don’t always know why I’m doing something, Sherlock. Or actually… I don’t usually know. I just…” He took a deep breath. “Could we go home? Now? I can’t dance anymore and I don’t want to talk to anyone anymore. I just want to be with you.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock said, then breathed out and placed his hand over John’s. His fingers were warm. “We can go home. But I think we should let someone know we’re leaving, or else they are going to think we broke some kind of a social code.”  
  
“Yeah, absolutely,” John said and then remembered what he had meant to ask Sherlock. It had kind of bothered him the whole day, but not much, since he had been busy getting married to Sherlock. “Hey, why isn’t Karen here?”  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock said, pulled his hand away from John’s and stood up. “She’s in jail. She was arrested two days ago.”  
  
  
**  
  
  
John closed the door, hung his coat and walked to the kitchen. There, he put the kettle on, then went to the bathroom, took a piss, washed his hands and washed his face, too. He had already loosened his tie in the taxi, now he took it off. He opened the two top buttons of his shirt, came out of the bathroom and told Sherlock he was going to go change. Sherlock didn’t answer, only stood in the middle of the living room, staring at the window.  
  
John went upstairs and undressed. His fingers were surprisingly clumsy. He put on his most comfortable sweatpants and a worn t-shirt and his softest pullover. Then he went back downstairs.  
  
“I’m going to make tea,” he told Sherlock. “Are you going to keep those clothes on?”  
  
Apparently it took Sherlock a few seconds to register that John was talking at all. Then he glanced at John and frowned. “No.”  
  
John made tea. Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom for five minutes, then came back wearing pyjama pants, a white shirt, and his dressing gown, the nice one.  
  
“You and me,” John said to the tea kettle. “It’s not for the case.”  
  
“What?” Sherlock asked.  
  
John took a deep breath. He had been thinking about it now for almost an hour, ever since Sherlock had told him on the bench in the garden that Karen had already been arrested. “You didn’t marry me because you were trying to gather evidence. About our wedding planner.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
Oh, god, this was bad. Sherlock never said ‘what’ _twice_ in a row.  
  
“Sherlock,” John said and turned to look at Sherlock, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking terribly nervous and absolutely beautiful. “You’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to listen the whole thing, because I know this is going to sound bad, and I don’t know how to make it not sound bad, but I want you to… Can you come here?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said. It sounded genuine.  
  
“Just come here,” John said, “walk to me, let me… I just need to hold your hand, or something, so that I know you won’t disappear.”  
  
“I’m not going to _disappear_ ,” Sherlock said in a thin voice but walked over to John and let John circle his fingers around his wrist. On the way home, Sherlock had been quiet, probably tired from the party, and John had been quiet, thinking that _oh bloody fucking hell_ he had married Sherlock Holmes _for real._  
  
Now, he could he see from Sherlock’s face that Sherlock was catching up with his line of thinking.  
  
“John,” Sherlock said slowly, “did you think…”  
  
“Yes,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s wrist a little, so that Sherlock wouldn’t slip away from him. “Yes, I thought you asked me to marry you because you wanted to get the evidence about Karen.”  
  
Sherlock tugged at his wrist. John didn’t let go.  
  
“But you meant it,” John said, “you meant it the whole time. You wanted to marry me because you…” He bit his lip. _Fuck the fucking fuck -_ “Because you love me.”  
  
Sherlock looked very pale. “We can get a divorce.”  
  
“No,” John said, “no, absolutely not. Unless you want to. But I don’t think you do. You married me for _love_ , Sherlock, for goddamn…”  
  
Sherlock swallowed and then took a deep breath. “There was this article –“  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
“There was this article,” Sherlock said again, his voice steadier now, like he was ready to start an argument, “in the newspaper. It was about… how it’s practical to be married, because if one of you dies suddenly, the other gets… something. Legal protection.”  
  
John opened his mouth and then closed it again.  
  
“Last time, you were so…” Sherlock frowned. “I didn’t want to do it to you again. To die, I mean. But I’m going to. Eventually.”  
  
“Unless I die first,” John said. He didn’t mean to make it sound like a threat, but it certainly did. “I’m older.”  
  
“My sleeping habits and my eating habits are highly irregular, and I have a history with substance misuse. And you’re better at shooting.”  
  
John tried to breathe steadily, he really did. “Sherlock –“  
  
“I can’t stop myself from dying one day,” Sherlock said, “but I thought maybe it would be better if we were… if we were married, because the… the article made it sound like it’d be easier for you then.”  
  
“You idiot,” John said, holding Sherlock’s hand, “you utter git, you… _Nothing_ is going to make it easier for me to lose you. One day. One day in the very, very distant future, because I swear to you, I’m going to do something about your sleeping and eating habits.”  
  
“I thought I would have to argue,” Sherlock said. “And obviously I was going to make you read the article. I thought you would say no, and then later I would suggest it again, and you would consider it, and I would tell you that it’s the best thing we can do, and then slowly you would accept it. But you just said yes.”  
  
John nodded, looking at his hand holding Sherlock’s hand.  
  
“I should’ve realised you didn’t mean it,” Sherlock said in a voice that was too calm. “I kind of did, I think. But I didn’t want to.”  
  
“Hey,” John said, stroking the back of Sherlock’s hand with his thumb, “did you mean it? What you said in your speech? In our… wedding?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Everything?”  
  
“Yes. Sorry, was that –“  
  
“Don’t apologise,” John said, “don’t fucking apologise to me, Sherlock. It was perfect. Except the part where you told everyone about how much I like having sex with women, because that was… kind of personal, really.”  
  
“Everything about it was personal,” Sherlock said, frowning. “It’s personal that I love you.”  
  
“Yeah,” John said, “yeah, it really is. I didn’t realise.”  
  
“…you didn’t realise what?”  
  
“That you love me.”  
  
Sherlock squeezed his hand. “Yes, you did.”  
  
“Not like that. Like, does this mean that we can… that I can kiss you?”  
  
Sherlock blinked at him. “Do you want to kiss me?”  
  
He looked at Sherlock. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, I do. I want to kiss you. I realise I’m a bit late to figure that out, but… I want to kiss you, Sherlock.”  
  
“Okay,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I can kiss you?”  
  
“Yes, you can kiss me.”  
  
John cleared his throat. “Now?”  
  
“The tea is ready,” Sherlock said.  
  
“Fuck the tea,” John said and kissed him.  
  
  
**  
  
  
“…Sherlock?”  
  
“John?”  
  
“Do you realise that we’re married now?”  
  
John could definitely hear the disapproval in Sherlock’s silence. “Yes, John,” Sherlock said finally. “I realise we are married. I was there when it happened.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” John said, “I just… do you realise that we’re _really_ married?”  
  
Sherlock turned to look at him. “I’m regretting it now.”  
  
“No, you aren’t,” he said. “You’re flushed.”  
  
“I am not.”  
  
“Your face is all pink. It’s lovely. Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock looked like he was wondering if he wanted to kill John or if he was too tired. “What?”  
  
“What do you think of sex?”  
  
“…you’re asking me now?”  
  
“I’m sometimes a little slow,” John said, drawing circles on Sherlock’s chest. Then he decided he was actually getting a little cold and wriggled closer to Sherlock.  
  
“What’re you doing?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Cuddling. With you.”  
  
“You’re pressing your chest against my arm and pushing your knee in between my thighs.”  
  
“Shut up. I’m improvising.”  
  
“Am I supposed to do something?”  
  
“Well,” John said and took a deep breath, “you could wrap your arm around me, if you want to. But only if you want to.”  
  
“Shouldn’t we put some clothes on?”  
  
“Not right now, no. Unless you want to.”  
  
“No, it’s just…”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’m naked and you’re looking at my penis.”  
  
John bit his lip. “Sorry.”  
  
“I don’t _mind_ ,” Sherlock said, sounding irritated, which was just perfect. John tried to wriggle closer to him, but he only managed to nudge at Sherlock’s balls with his knee.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“Stop repeating yourself,” Sherlock said and then was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t think you’d want me like this.”  
  
John kissed his shoulder. “I didn’t know I wanted you like this. Or I… I had thought about it sometimes, a little, but I didn’t… Anyway, I do. I really do want you. Like this.”  
  
“But it was sex, right?”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“What we just did? It was sex, it wasn’t just… you feeling sorry for me, or trying to offer me emotional comfort with your… hand?”  
  
“No,” John said, “oh, god, no, Sherlock, that wasn’t… that was sex. Definitely. I want to have sex with you. If you want to have sex with me. That’s why I asked. About sex. Just now.”  
  
“Are you asking me,” Sherlock said slowly, wriggling his arm until it was draped around John’s shoulder, “are you asking me if I would let you fuck me?”  
  
John bit his tongue. Oh, _shit._ “No, I, I meant _generally_ , what –“  
  
“Because I would,” Sherlock said. “I would let you fuck me. Gladly. Just not… not today.”  
  
John closed his eyes. “Sherlock –“  
  
“I will make a list,” Sherlock said, “and print it, so you will know what kind of sexual acts I prefer and what –“  
  
“No,” John said, propped up on his elbow and leaned in to kiss Sherlock. “No,” he said against Sherlock’s mouth, “I don’t need a list, or you can make a list if you like, or you could just tell me, but that’s not what I meant, I meant… I don’t have a fucking clue what I meant, Sherlock, I’m not as clever as you, I’m just… I can’t believe we’re married.”  
  
“You’re barely making any sense at all,” Sherlock said. “And your knee is poking at my crotch. If you don’t want me to get aroused again –“  
  
“Could you?” John asked and cleared his throat. “Can you? Because if you… that’s perfectly fine, Sherlock, we can just… we can just do it again.”  
  
Sherlock breathed out. “It was nice.”  
  
“Yeah, it was.”  
  
“The noises you made sounded very stupid,” Sherlock said and paused. “But also I found them arousing.”  
  
“Thank you,” John said, “I suppose. You didn’t sound stupid. You didn’t look stupid, either. Do you know that you are… that you are… that you’re my favourite person in the whole fucking world?”  
  
Sherlock almost smiled at him. “I didn’t know that.”  
  
“Well,” he said, “then you’re an idiot.”  
  
“Hmm,” Sherlock said. “I want to kiss you now.”  
  
“Then kiss me,” John said.  
  
Many kisses and one handjob later, John fell asleep in Sherlock’s bed. In the morning, there was a ring in his finger and a list taped on the fridge door.


End file.
